Christmas Doesn't Just Happen Accidently
by AlreadyPainfullyGone
Summary: Yes, my title makes no sense. But neither do the stories. Here it is again, the supernatural fic advent calender by me, and Madam Mimm. There'll be a new fic every day in the lead-up to Christmas. Various ratings, M just to be safe. Destiel and Sabriel. Fluff-Angst.
1. Chapter 1

On Christmas Eve, Castiel gets a package from his brother Gabriel, which contains his Christmas present. He knows it's his present, because Gabriel only sends him two things a year, a present the day after his birthday, and a present the day before Christmas. It's the only way in which his brother is consistent.

He opens the package at his desk, having grabbed it just as he was heading out of the door for work. Castiel is very busy at this time of year, as he is in constant demand around Christmas and New Year. He works at a call centre that deals with complaints for a major fairy light manufacturer, and he takes his work very seriously.

His cubicle is bordered on two sides by fellow employees, Chuck, who is moonlighting to support his main ambition of becoming a writer, and Garth, who likes working at the call centre because he read Marmaduke comics on his computer between calls.

Castiel's cubicle is the same size as everyone else's, and has grey, felty walls onto which he can pin things like memos and photographs. Theoretically. The only things he has on his wall are the scripts he has to follow when someone calls regarding faulty bulbs and wiring, and a calendar from 2010 with kittens on it, which appeared one day and which he hasn't bothered to take down.

He has his headset on at 8.45 sharp, a cup of medium strength take-out coffee on his left, a package of whole almonds on his right, and the package dead centre on his desk. He picks up a pair of scissors and slits the celotape holding the whole thing together.

Inside is a cellphone. It's a white, 'flip' phone, with a blue display on the front, and stuck on silver rhinestone wing decals. Castiel looks at it for a moment, then transfers it to his desk drawer. It's the drawer where he keeps his paperclips (sorted by size and colour) but the phone will have to stay in there while he's working.

Castiel takes 175 calls that day. Almost his personal best.

When he goes home he throws his almond bag and coffee cup into the bin, puts the phone in his messenger bag and walks the 2 ¼ miles back to his apartment.

On the way there the phone starts to ring, and Castiel answers it only because the pop music ringtone is so annoying.

"Hello?"

"Hey, are you naked?"

The voice is not Gabriel's, it's some stranger.

"No," Castiel says.

Not the least bit daunted, the voice continues. "Are you in bed?"

"No." Castiel is actually standing outside of a Chinese take-out place, he'd been debating whether to buy steamed rice, or go home and steam his own.

"So...what are you doing right now?"

"Trying to decide if I should buy steamed rice, or steam my own."

"Dude, is this some kind of con?"

"No. This is a phone call...perhaps you have the wrong number?"

The caller hangs up, and Castiel decides that he really should cook his own rice.

He gets three more calls that evening, all of which start with some stranger asking if he's naked. He's actually only naked for one of them, and, as he explains, that's only because he was getting ready to take a shower when the phone rang.

Getting into bed that night, Castiel reflects that Gabriel is also consistent in getting him pre-owned Christmas gifts. Second hand DVDs, a used Calvin Klein suit, a leather couch that had once belonged to a strip club...the list was endless.

Wherever Gabriel had gotten the phone, Castiel hoped that they redistributed a new number soon. He wasn't used to getting so many calls on his own time, and it was making him nervy.


	2. Chapter 2

(By Madam Mimm)

Sam was very glad there was no one else in the elevator, since he and his approximate eighteen billion bags of assorted Christmas crap took up most of it. He deposited the bags on the floor and leant back against the mirrored wall, wrecked from spending five hours collecting presents, decorations and who-knows-what other impulse buy crap. Track after track of cheapy cutesy Christmas music had been blared into his skull, he had been blinded by garish tinsel and if he never smelled peppermint or pumpkin again it would be too soon. Just as he was wondering if the elevator ride to the sub-basement car park would give him enough time to fall asleep, the doors clunked open and an elf walked in.

The elf pressed the sub-basement button, sighed heavily as the doors slid closed, and scratched under the brim of his oh-so-abominably-cutesy hat with his candy cane accessory. He caught Sam's bemused stare in the mirror, and spun on his heel to face him.

"Can I help you?"

"Sorry… uh… just thought I was… suffering Christmas hallucinations."

"Nope. Real as the shit you've filled up the entire elevator with."

"Oh, sorry," Sam tried to tidy some of his bags into a neater herd, and the elf seemed to soften a little in response.

"Thanks. And, sorry for snapping. Just… been one of those days, you know?"

"Yeah, Sam nodded, before realising "actually, no, why are you dressed as an elf?"

"I figured I could get some extra cash working the Christmas grotto. I was aiming for Santa Clause, but apparently they had sixteen Santa applicants and two elves, so now I'm in these goddam tights, my feet are killing me, and I haven't eaten anything since five this morning because the goddamn candy cane they gave me? It's plastic." He knocked it against the doors to prove his point. Sam grimaced, nodding.

"Yeah. That's… that's tough…" he rooted around in one of his bags, before finding a paper bag of something labelled "Reindeer droppings" and offered it to the elf. The elf raised an eyebrow. Sam shook his head. "They're chocolate coated almonds."

"Well yeah, I figured it wasn't a bag full of crap," the elf said, snatching the bag to the sound of jingling bells on his collar. Sam leant back against the mirror, giving the feral elf as much room as possible. He scowled as the elf tore into the bag of holiday treats and devoured the contents.

"I know it might be new to you, but humans say 'thank you' to one another."

Sometimes, Sam really wished he could just keep his head down and not say anything. The elf turned on him.

"Look, buddy, all I want to do is get out of this elevator and get out of this freaking nightmare store. When I get to my car, I will give you the five goddamn bucks you paid for these stupid chocolates. I'd give it to you now, but I left my wallet in my other tights." The elf hissed, to another chorus of jingling bells, before throwing the crumpled up paper bag into one of Sam's shopping bags.

Sam debated his options here.

He could just stay there and stay quiet, wait for the elevator to hit the parking lot and then laugh about this later.

He could calmly but firmly inform the elf that, regardless of how bad his day had been, everyone got stressed during the holidays and that was no excuse to act like an ass.

Or, he could kill the elf.

He'd had a long, stressful day shopping, he had plenty of potential weapons, and not a jury in the world would convict him.

In the end, Sam settled for leaning over and pushing the sub-basement button again.

That was when the elevator broke down.

The elf turned eyes of murder, flame, brimstone and napalm on Sam.

"What. Did you. Do?"

"Nothing! I didn't…"

"Eurgh!" The elf sort of grunted-wailed-screamed, before hammering the help button and descending to the floor when he got no answer. He drew his knnes up and sat with his head in his hands. "I hate this holiday! The worst, most ridiculous… I'm Jewish! I shouldn't even have to put up with this!"

Sam waited for the Elf to calm down a little, before slipping to the floor opposite him.

"Do you… d'you want to maybe talk about it?"

The elf levelled him with another unimpressed eyebrow raise. Sam shrugged.

"I'd feel responsible if I let a homicidal elf out on the public." He extended his hand across the small gap between them. "Sam."

The elf, after a moment's hesitation, shook Sam's hand.

"Gabriel."

Sam bit back a laugh.

"Really? As in…"

"Yes, 'as in'. Because life is cruel and ironic."

When Sam had decided to do all of his Christmas shopping in one day, he had expected a little stress and strain, some annoying music and a few crowds. He had not expected to be spending time stuck in an elevator between the ground and basement, counselling an elf named Gabriel. As he listened to the description of the worst Santa's grotto ever, he found a couple of bottles of triple strength egg nog and cracked them open. There were worse ways to spend an hour or two, he guessed.


	3. Chapter 3

Every. Year.

Dean glares across from his garden into the front yard of the house across the street, where the angel is blinking on and off in the darkness.

Every year that damn angel sits there, all perfect and pristine, white lights arranged on wire mesh wings, flaring out behind the plastic body that glows with hidden warmth beneath its moulded robes. The halo over its head is wire coated in real 18 carat gold (Dean read the product description on the angel's box, which was propped up in the garbage cans for all to see), illuminated with soft golden light.

The thing is beautiful, and it's a whole uncrossable 19 yards away.

Sam, as usual, is standing beside him in the snow, towering over the frosted over garden gnomes with their oh-so-hilarious assless chaps. Sam is pretty lucky, because not only is he kind of classy (with his white light antlers and real red leather saddle with bells on the reigns, you know, if you ignore the other reindeer humping him (which you can, because Chuck is pretty embarrassed to even be there)) he's also free to move, because unlike Dean, he's not staked into the ground.

Dean is staked down because last year, a bachelorette party thought it would be funny to steal him, and strap him to the roof of their car. He'd fallen off almost straight away, and now had a scratch over his eyebrow and lip from the road. The owner had dragged him out of the street and set him back in his rightful place, and, ever since, he's been pinned down with metal pegs, driven deep into the frozen ground.

Dean is what the owner refers to as an 'unconventional little Christmas thrill' and what everyone else on the street refers to as 'a crass piece of vile sexploitation that Gabriel should have taken down and burnt as soon as he'd first set it up'.

Dean is a plastic Santa, wearing a cloth hat, red velour speedo, and nothing else. He's also completely anatomically correct, and moulded from impressions made by some famous porn star or another.

Sam was bought on the same day, a realistic alpine moose with all the trappings, and they've been set up together since that very first Christmas some five years ago. And Dean had been tragically in love with the angel across the street since about 20 seconds after Gabriel plugged him in, and left him to glow in the front yard.

This year however, is different, because, while Dean is mooning over the angel across the street, some guy comes out of the house, the lights around the angel blink off, and, by the light of the street lamps, Dean watches as the angel's owner pulls the gold halo off, bends it in two and puts it in his pocket, and then drags the angel to the curb, and tips it over next to his garbage cans.

Dean is beside himself with rage and complete and total terror.

Garbage day is tomorrow, and the angel is going to be crush in the garbage truck, and then taken to wherever the trash goes when it's not in the truck.

And he never even got to say 'Hi'.


	4. Chapter 4

_Don't worry guys, all these snippets do have second and third parts, and will all be concluded. _

_(By Madam Mimm)_

Twas the night before Christmas, as the saying goes, and Dean was really freakin' pissed. They'd driven all the way up to New Hampshire to investigate what might have been a lead on Crowley, but actually turned out to be a bunch of kids creating a very advanced hoax, hoping to scare the crap out of their teachers.

Meaning they were snowed in at some scumbag motel in New Hampshire, and Cas wasn't strong enough to bamf them somewhere else. So they just had to wait out the snowstorm, which would have been a hell of a lot easier if the bad weather wasn't messing up the TV reception and Wifi signal.

Sam had been the unlucky one, and been elected to venture out to the 7-11 to get supplies. Castiel was asleep on the couch (which weirded Dean out more than when he used to just stand there not sleeping), leaving Dean staring at the fuzzy static on the TV set. His phone rang and, thinking it was Sam phoning to curse him out again, he answered it ready for a fight.

"What?"

"… Dean?"

"Kevin? What's up?" Dean was instantly on alert. "Something wrong?"

"No, no," Kevin didn't sound like he was in mortal peril, but that did make Dean wonder why the hell he was calling. "I was just looking through my part of the tablet, and, uh, I saw something that I think is about you."

"Oh… awesome. More good news." Dean sighed, wondering exactly what he ever did to be picked on this much by Heaven, inc. "Lay it on me."

"Well, the tablet says, that, uh, 'in the time after time, once days have ended and then continued, when the birth of humanity's messiah may yet be remembered, the Michael Sword shall have served his purpose, and less, and more…'"

"Cryptic. Sounds like the word of God to me."

"Shut up, there's more. It says, 'To test his faith, spectres threefold shall visit upon him and his party, for he will have lost his strength, his trust and love in the Lord our God, and in his word, and in himself. On the eve before the Messiah's commemoration, these spectres shall appear, and wax wroth'."

Why was someone always waxing wroth? Dean was absolutely fine with un-waxed wroth.

"And all that means what, exactly?"

Kevin was silent for a moment.

"You're not going to like it."

"Yeah, I'd already figured that. Tell me."

"You're… tonight, sometime before dawn, you're going to be tested. Your faith in the Angels, and in God, and in yourself will be tested…"

"Right?"

"So three ghosts are going to appear and beat the crap out of you."

Dean nearly threw his phone at the wall.

"Three ghosts?"

"Yeah."

"Three, ghosts?"

"Yeah, I know…"

"What the hell, Kevin? What else is going to happen, some guy with chains all around him? I'm supposed to open the door next morning and tell some kid to go buy me the biggest turkey in the shop?"

"It was a goose. And, you know Dickens?"

Dean had several choice responses for that, but decided he didn't have the strength.

"Thanks for the heads up, Kevin." Dean hung up the phone and stalked over to the fridge, finding himself a beer.

At that moment, Sam kicked his way through the door and deposited storm supplies on the kitchenette table, bitching about the cold so much that he woke Cas. When Sam finally quieted down and realised Dean was giving him the "I hate my life and I want to tell you why" glare, Dean was already half way through his beer.

"So, Kevin phoned."

Sam and Cas looked instantly worried.

"Apparently, tonight I'm going to be attacked by three ghosts so I can prove some point about my faith. Because apparently I'm Scrooge."

Sam thought this over for a while, looking like he was trying really hard not to find it funny.

"You know Dickens?"

"Unless you have anything useful to say, shut up."

"Did Kevin say anything about the ghosts?" Cas did his head tilty thing, which reassured Dean a little. At least it meant someone was taking this seriously.

"Nope, just that there'll be three of them."

"This could be very dangerous, if we have no indication of the strengths of these ghosts… but why would they test you, specifically? I have no knowledge of another prophecy concerning either of you…"

"Cas, no offence," Sam suddenly became very interested in his groceries, "but, uh, do you think it might have been… a 'need-to-know' basis prophecy?"

Castiel stared at Sam for a moment, before returning to the couch.

"I shall examine my memory for any mention of a similar prophecy. I suggest you get to researching, Sam."

Dean fought back a smirk at Sam's chastised expression, before throwing himself down on one of the beds.

"And if I'm gonna be up all night facing ghosts, I'm gonna catch me some shut eye." He grinned over at Sam. "Happy researching."

Sam very nearly suffocated him with the grocery bag.


	5. Chapter 5

Castiel was making his morning cup of coffee when the phone started going off again. He sat down on the chrome and beech stool at his breakfast counter and pulled his grey robe close around him. The constant ringing of the phone had kept him awake all night, and even when it hadn't been going off, the song it played had been stuck in his head, making sleep impossible. Endless questions had kept him up, Why would boys come to the yard for a milkshake? wouldn't a diner or café be better? And what was so special about this particular milkshake? Its flavour wasn't even mentioned.

He snapped the phone open, and said, in his most professional voice, "Please stop calling this number, it is no longer in service."

It had worked on the last 27 callers, all of whom had hung up immediately. But this time there was a brief pause on the line, before someone said,

"Damn, you sound way hotter than the last guy."

Castiel blinked. "I'm not a sex line operator."

"You sound like one."

"Well, I'm not. I'm a call centre operative."

He heard a smothered laugh on the other end of the line.

"Are you laughing at me?"

"Well, yeah. You're just...seriously, this is good, keep talking."

"No."

"Oh, please?" The voice managed to sound pleading and mocking at the same time. "Doesn't even have to be sexy, the smouldering voice thing is really working for me."

Castiel didn't know what to do. He'd become so used to his job that the idea of hanging up was out of the question. No matter how weird or abusive the caller, he had to stay on the line. That was why he'd been voted 'Call Operative of the Week (Upper Kansas State, Region 3)' fifteen times in a row. They gave him Waffle Haus gift cards that he left on the street for someone else to use.

"I..." he said.

"Tell me what you did yesterday," the voice encouraged, with a husky undertone that made Castiel deeply uncomfortable.

"I went to work."

"At this call centre place?"

"Yes."

"And...uh...you work in a cubicle?"

"A five by six, three walled cubicle, with grey walls, and a kitten calendar." Castiel said, part of his brain already distancing himself from whatever was happening at the other end of the line.

"And, um...huh...after work, where did you go?"

"I came home."

"And?"

"I steamed some rice, and listened to the shipping report."

"You, uh..." he heard a swallow, "hmmmnnn...you own a boat?"

"No. I just like the shipping report. I'm interested in atmospheric pressure and changes in weather systems."

"Mmmhmmm...a-and...your name is..."

"Castiel...I also did some Sudoku, the...the Mensa book, they're better than the newspaper ones. Harder."

"Uh...say that again."

"What?"

"Harder."

"Harder?"

"Mmhhhmm, again."

"Harder." Castiel said, his throat sticking.

On the other end of the line there came a restrained groan, and then some heavy breathing, interspersed with a few whimpers.

For some reason, beyond his reasoning, Castiel still hadn't hung up.

"That was..." he heard a huff of laughter, "well, I definitely won't be losing your number. Have a great day Cas."

And then he hung up.

Castiel carefully folded the phone closed and set it on the counter as if it was some kind of armed explosive device.

His ear felt hot.


	6. Chapter 6

"So then," Gabriel the elf paused to drain the last of his bottle of…

Sam examined the label of his impulse buy. 'X X X-nog'. Oh god. And he bought three cases of the cheap crap…

Gabriel the elf paused to drain the last of his egg nog, before dropping the bottle back in one of Sam's bags and continuing his story.

"So then, Zach the ass, who, by the way, should not be allowed anywhere near children or any freakin' human beings ever, turns to me and says 'God I hate this job. But hey, at least I can sit down… and I get to wear pants'." Gabriel stared at Sam, who was biting back the instinct to laugh. "Can you believe that? I swear, I nearly suffocated him with his own gift sack."

Sam couldn't help it, he smirked. Gabriel looked offended, but Sam got the feeling he liked being the centre of attention. And it wasn't like there was much else to pay attention to in an elevator below ground level.

"Shut up, smirky joe," Gabriel sighed, poking through the bags for another bottle, "and see if there's anyone answering the phone yet."

Sam did as he was told, punching the 'call for assistance' button once again. So far, they had called once or twice a minute for the past fifteen minutes, and had yet to be assisted.

This time, though, someone finally picked up.

"Yo."

"Oh my god! There's someone there!" Sam was almost too relieved to be angry. Almost. "Man, we've been stuck in here for fifteen minutes! What the hell?"

"Sorry, dude," the voice crackled from the other end, not sounding all that sorry, "was on my lunch break. 'Kay, what elevator are you in and what level are you stuck on?"

Sam read the serial number above the call button, and told the voice where they were stuck.

"Give me ten minutes, dude, and I will be getting you out of that elevator."

(-*-)

Ten minutes later, Sam and Gabriel were still in the elevator, as were all of Sam's Christmas presents, minus one bag of chocolate coated almonds and two bottles of 'X X Xnog'.

Ten minutes after that, they were still in the elevator, minus another two bottles of 'nog and a box of crackers, which Sam had made Gabriel eat just to soak up some of the 'nog.

Ten minutes after that, the crackly voiced elevator 'dude' guy, as he had come to be known, was back on the phone.

"So, bros, I got some good news and some bad news."

Sam glanced nervously at Gabriel. He did not want to be killed by a homicidal elf.

"The good news," Crackly Voiced Elevator 'Dude' Guy continued, "is that the management would like to apologise for this inconvenience, and reimburse you fully for your parking here today."

There was a stony silence for a few seconds. Gabriel pushed Sam out of the way and calmly depressed the call button.

"Ignoring the fact that I work in this godforsaken hellhole and therefore already get free parking, what is the bad news?"

"Dudes, I think we should all chill out and-"

"Just tell us the bad news!"

"There's a blockage the shaft, meaning you dudes probably can't move without causing a massive collapse or severing the cable or something."

"What?" Gabriel looked like he was about to explode. If it was possible for a voice to shrug, Crackly Voiced Elevator 'Dude' Guy's did.

"Look, man, I'm really only trained to winch doors open and hit buttons in the right order. To get you guys out, we're going to need to get some heavy duty help in here."

Gabriel threw his hands up in the air and collapsed in the far corner. Sam steeled himself as he asked the only question he could ask.

"And how long do you think that's going to take?"

"This close to Christmas?" Crackly Voiced Elevator 'Dude' Guy gave a grim chuckle. "I'd like to say you'll be out by the end of the day, dudes, really I would."

"So we're stuck here indefinitely?" Gabriel wailed from his corner.

"You can't give us…"

The line went dead.

Ten minutes after that, Sam and Gabriel were still in the elevator, minus another five bottles of nog, and one large candy cane which they had used to beat the shit out of the control panel.


	7. Chapter 7

"Why the fuck isn't he getting up?" Dean muttered to himself. It had started to snow a little, and the flakes stuck to his face, blurring his vision of the angel lying in the street, powerless now that it's electric cord had been detached. It's wings were a barely visible wire construction, with no lights gleaming on them.

Sam craned his neck to look, antlers twinkling through the snow. "I think it's legs are moulded together."

Dean cursed under his breath.

"The owner might pick him up tomorrow, you know he likes free decorations," Sam said, speaking of their owner, the small man who every year rescued dozens of ornaments from the kerb and added them to the clamouring menagerie of figures and lights all around his house.

"The garbage truck is going to come too early...he'll never make it in time."

They both knew this to be true, the owner was fond of sleeping late, and sometimes emerged once the sun was high in the sky, wearing a red silk rob, grumbling and looking for his newspaper.

"Someone's going to have to go get him." Dean said, decisively. "I am not going to let some garbage truck crush him into tiny pieces right in front of me." Dean raised his voice. "Hey! Hey angel, you got a name? Can you walk?"

There was silence.

"He's face down." Sam said, "I don't think he can talk."

Dean cursed again. "Can you go over there?"

"Dean, I can't carry him, I have no hands."

"Just to turn him over so we can talk?"

Sam sighed. "You ok with that Chuck?"

Chuck, who was not good with conversation, being so humiliated by being permanently in a state of mounting Sam, whispered that is was Ok by him.

Sam (and Chuck by extension) trotted cautiously out into the snowy street on his plastic hooves. He skidded twice, and froze when a couple walked by on the sidewalk, but eventually made it to the angel. He got his nose under one of the wings and flipped at it, pushing the angel over onto it's back.

Dean didn't have adrenal glands, or a circulatory system, but his heart would have been pounding if he had.

Sam tired to push the angel through the snow, but it was too heavy for him to move. After a while, Sam came sliding back, and couched in the snow once more, worn out from crossing the street.

"He says his name is Castiel, and that he can't walk. His legs are one piece." Sam looked down at the snow, "He also said that you're very honourable, but, they there's no way you can get him out of the garbage, without endangering yourself. So, he says thanks, but, don't try."

Dean looked through the whirling flakes of snow, and saw the pale face of the angel against the dark sidewalk, looking up at the starry sky.

"Castiel, we're going to get you over here. Even if it takes all night. We're going to."

For the longest time, there was silence, then, through the still night air, he heard a low voice calling over.

"I hope you're right."

Another pause, like the gathering of strength.

"Dean...that's your name?"

"Yeah," Dean called back.

"I've been looking at you for a really long time," the angel called over, "Always wanted to say hello."

"Hello Castiel," Dean shouted over, his snow dotted face split with a grin that he meant, for once.

"Hello Dean."


	8. Chapter 8

"Dean."

Dean was busy. He was in that nice place between being awake and being asleep, where you just had the consciousness to be aware of how nice it was being asleep.

"Deano?"

No. Awake was bad. He tried to push himself back into the enveloping darkness of sleep.

There was a snap, followed by a rousing electric guitar chorus that jolted Dean awake. In the dim half light cast by the porch lamp outside the motel room window, he saw a shadowy figure leaning against the wall opposite his bed.

"You know, I never got to do that to you… if I did it another four hundred and seven times, you and Sammy would be even."

Dean squinted to see through the darkness, trying to look more prepared than he was.

"Who's there?"

"Really? You can't tell just by the luxurious tone of my voice? Gotta say, I'm a little offended."

Dean pulled himself to his feet (happily realising he was fully dressed, and hadn't been caught with his pants off), and reached for the sawnoff shotgun he kept out of habit under his pillow.

"Should I recognise you?"

"I'd hope so. And don't bother looking for your gun, it ain't there and it wouldn't help you anyway." The shadowy… spectre, Dean supposed, stepped forward, causing more light to catch his features. Dean wasn't really looking at the face, though. He was staring at the gaping wound in the figure's chest, caked with dried blood and bleeding a sort of silver light.

And, when he managed to tear his eyes away from the wound, they were redirected to the giant, ashen wings that stretched out from the figure's back, looking like some twisted, pre-dead tree that was just losing the last of its fall foliage. Eventually, Dean managed to look the figure in the eyes.

"Gabriel? You're… you're one of my spectres?"

"Sound a little thrilled, Dean, c'mon."

"Sorry, but… wait…" for the first time, he noticed he couldn't see Sam or Cas. He also noticed that outside of the window, it was raining _up_.

"Dreamworld." Gabriel explained. "It's the only place I could really get at you. No physical manifestations for an Angel ghost."

"Huh." Dean wasn't really sure what else to say. "I don't know if you got the memo, but I was expecting something a little more… wrathful."

"Yeah, I'll get to it." Gabriel shrugged. "If I'm predestined to be part of someone else's revelation, I'll do it my way. C'mon." Gabriel motioned for them to go, and pushed open the door to the bathroom, revealing…

"Oh, nu-uh. No way." Dean sat back on his bed. "Last time I went in there, bad things happened."

"It's your dream, ass, I can't help what's floating around in your subconscious." Gabriel closed the door on Roman Industries, before opening it again. This time, it led into Bobby's kitchen. Dean shook his head again. Gabriel sighed.

"You know, you keep being a pissy little bitch, I'm gonna get around to that wrath thing a whole lot sooner than intended. Now come on."

Feeling awkward inside his own head, Dean followed Gabriel into Bobby's kitchen, trying not to stare too much at the charcoal wings that dropped feathers in front of him.

"So… you're really dead?"

"As the proverbial doornail. I know, I know, your lives will be meaningless without the potential promise of my return, but, try to go on without me." Gabriel smirked over his shoulder as he lead the way through Bobby's library to the front door. "Not much coming back from an Angel sword through the chest. That's actually kind of what I'm here to talk to you about."

Gabriel opened the front door and reclined on a porch chair that Dean could have sworn had never been on Bobby's porch. He motioned to the chair next to him, and Dean sat, feeling oddly tense.

"You know, if you schmucks had just let things go the way they were supposed to, there wouldn't have been all this mess. The whole word of God thing wouldn't have been needed, Kevin wouldn't have become a prophet, Purgatory, Leviathans…"

"If we'd done things the way they were supposed to be done, the world would have ended." Dean growled. Gabriel shook his head.

"Nu-uh. I didn't want to give away spoilers at the time, but… And, take this from me, I was there when the Word was set down… what was supposed to happen was you getting ganked by Lucy instead of me when he showed up in that hotel. After that, Sam would go all… Sam… Lucy would get hold of him, Michael would take Adam, leaving me, Bobby, Cas and Garth as the saviours, believe it or not."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah. Be glad I jumped on that blade for you. So the world wouldn't have ended. It would have changed. God would never have written in a creation rage-quit. I think the whole thing was some sort of exercise in Free Will, but ain't it typical that the angels, who were supposed to learn the lesson, outright didn't?" Gabriel sighed again, and stared into the distance. "All I wanted was to give you boys a chance, but it seems you're screwed either way. Stick to the plan, death. Deviate from it, death. It's not good."

"You can say that again."

"No, Dean, you don't get it. I freakin' died, handed over my immortality card and doomed myself to an eternity of existence in non-existence, and you're sat around moping because Crowley's that little bit ahead of you. If you're going to go off book, fine, but do it with a little panache, huh? I mean, think about it. Ever since you first met me, I've been encouraging you chuckleheads to actually do something, not just sit back and rot in your co-dependant snuggies. But there you are, still just waiting for the opportunity to fall into your laps…"

"Hey, wait a second…"

"No, Dean. You want your spectre of years passed, here it is: you could have done so much more, could have actually tried, but you let yourself be bound by what other people said was fate. Now I could beat you up, I could force you to sit through every moment of shocking realisation and horrid humiliation between now and the day you were born, but I know that wouldn't teach you a thing."

"Hey, I got myself out of purgatory, didn't I?"

"No. Benny got you out of purgatory. The thought of getting out wouldn't have even crossed your mind if he hadn't turned up."

"I was trying to find Cas…"

"You're always trying to find someone, or something, and it's never the thing you should be looking for."

"That's not true!"

"No?" Gabriel smirked, and snapped his fingers. His voice echoed through the forest Dean suddenly found himself in, the sickeningly familiar forest. "Then find what you need to get out of this one."

Dean stared around the dark, chilly surroundings, and felt his stomach drop to his feet. It may have only been a dream, but even dream purgatory was not where he wanted to spend Christmas eve.


	9. Chapter 9

To Castiel's relief, the calls to his phone petered out after a few days of him stonily answering every one and explaining that no, he wasn't about to listen to people huffing into the receiver, neither would he tell them what a bad boy he was. He was of good ethical standing. He recycled.

Only one caller remained undaunted, and Castiel couldn't seem to turn him away.

It wasn't that he particularly enjoyed hearing this once particular man groan and sigh at the end of the phone line. It didn't do anything for him the way it seemed to do for others. But the caller didn't want him to talk like someone in one of the bad pornographic films that Gabriel liked so much, he just wanted to hear what Castiel had done that day.

And, despite the fact that he knew it was just a ruse to get him to talk, so that the other man could hear his voice, Castiel found it pleasant, almost relaxing, to talk to someone outside of work who wasn't a take-out counter server, or providing technical support while he tried to fix his computer.

Over a number of days, Castiel found himself talking to the caller about work, "...completely disregarded the scripts for the 10-72-F faulty light bulb query and gave them the wrong information, which started a whole wave of new problems...' his family, '...still finding glitter in this couch, and Gabriel swears the Lusty Leopard got themselves completely STI free, but the first time I sat on it I got a very peculiar skin complaint...' and himself, '...still trying to find a precise fit but my desk chair is a little over 3mm too high, so I'm going to have to file down the legs.'

Castiel was the first to admit that he was not interesting. He had a great multitude of quirks and idiosyncrasies that were of interest only to him and his therapist. He did not like to bore people with the fact that he can only eat fruit from central California, or that he hadn't drunk alcohol since the first and only time, his first week in college, when he'd woken up with six ladybugs tattooed across his hip and a curious little parade.

But somehow, when talking to the man on the other end of the phone, he felt, if not interesting, than at least understood. As if he was finally being allowed to present a complete picture of himself to one human being. There's something about the guy's voice, a warmish tone whenever he speaks, as if he's amused, and Castiel wonders if he's being mocked, but then, the voice is too content to seem mocking. Like the purring of a cat.

He picks up the phone as it rings, setting his laptop aside and abandoning his attempts to find a way around the latest virus that Gabriel had introduced to it with a well meant 'raunchy Christmas greeting'. He was just going to have to buy a new computer, and maybe burn the old one. Better safe than sorry.

"Hello?"

"Hey Cas, got rid of that Trojan yet?" comes the now familiar voice, easy and blameless, a delinquent strolling down the street.

"Sadly no, it's gained a stranglehold in some old accounting files, and no amount of anti-viral stick waving will scare it out into the open. It's eaten its way through most of my files, and all my entire download collection."

"All your porn huh?"

"All my movies. John Wayne, Clint Eastwood in general, historical documentaries on the Third Reich, the civil war, the entire Band of Brothers Boxset...at least a hundred dollars worth of television and movie downloads."

"Bummer, hey, you like John Wayne?"

"Doesn't everyone?"

A low laugh. "I guess, if not they should. Give me your email address a second."

"Why?"

"Just gimmie it."

Castiel told him, and a second later a small pop-up informed him that he had email, the internet being the only part of the computer to still function anywhere near correctly, he wrestled his way online and saw that he'd just received three emails, each with a downloadable file attached, and all from 'D.W '.

"You should have it now," the voice said, "that's all the stuff I have on my laptop, lots of westerns, plus Deadwood seasons 1-3 and The Pacific, little BoB in there too."

"Thank you." Castiel was pleased, "I'll download them as soon as I get my new laptop."

"Good, hate to think of you being bored...so, how was work today?"

"It was...interminable, same as always. Though we did get some new guidelines on the use of scripts vs improvisation to answer queries in the most logical and helpful manner."

"No more messes like that light bulb thing?"

"Hopefully not."

"Cool. I got some shit myself today at work, completely messed up a delivery that was going out. All these cartons of CDs were meant to get over to the distribution centre from the factory, and I'd only booked three trucks, when we needed at least four, Bobby nearly lost it, I swear I thought I was going to get fired right there."

"But you didn't?"

"Nah, Bobby's cool, we had a beer later and it's all done with now. I just need to not get so distracted at work, which is really your fault after all."

"I didn't do anything..."

"Yeah, but I was thinking about you." There's a definite smile in his voice.

They talk for a further hour, and burn through what the weather's doing, how they got on with their families over Christmas, what they gave and got as gifts, the relative merits of several different bands, none of which Castiel has ever heard of, as he prefers orchestral imitations of nature noise.

By this time, Castile is genuinely concerned for the welfare of his caller, because surely he must have ejaculated by now. If not, he might have some kind of condition, or he could be suffering prolonged priapism, and is certainly well on the way to losing his genitalia via blood clot or necrosis.

Castiel coughs politely, "Are you...experiencing any difficulties?"

"Mmm? No...not really. Why, line going fuzzy on you?"

"No, it's just...it's been a while and, if you still have an erection, I would advise calling for medical attention."

There's a pause, then a startled laugh. "Dude, I'm fine. I wasn't...you know."

"Oh." Castiel said, then cleared his throat. "Am I doing something wrong?"

"No, I just, wanted to talk, you know? That ok?"

"Yes," Castiel said, settling himself into his couch and getting comfortable again. "That's absolutely fine."


	10. Chapter 10

Sam had honestly stopped counting the hours he had been in the elevator. Both he and Gabriel were a little drunk, and the air conditioning had stopped working, meaning the small, cramped space was getting suffocating.

"Sam?" Gabriel croaked, from his sprawled position on the floor.

"Yeah?" Sam couldn't say much better about himself, slumped in the corner like a puppet with its strings cut.

"Would you think less of me if I took my pantyhose off?"

Sam stared at Gabriel. Gabriel was beseechingly honest.

"These things are freaking killing me. Suffocating in all the wrong places."

"There's a right place to be suffocated?"

"Yeah, if you do it right…"

"No way! I'm already stuck in an elevator with a total stranger; it's awkward enough without him being…" Sam waved his hand vaguely at Gabriel's legs, feeling himself go pink in the cheeks.

"Either they come off, or I die." Gabriel heaved himself to his feet, readying for take off. "Besides, I'm wearing boxers, you won't see anything to offend your delicate sensibilities.

Sam grimaced as he realised he would not be listened to.

"Alright, hang on…" He took one of his empty bags and used it to cover the security camera. "Although I don't know why I care about your dignity, since it apparently means dick to you."

"Hah…" Gabriel exhaled a laugh, shrugging under Sam's gaze. "Truer words were never spoken. Also, "dick"."

Sam was considering his options for retorts, but before he could even think, Gabriel's red and green tights were off, and Sam found himself staring at a pair of red satin boxers.

Sam turned away quickly and started staring at the hall, thinking that the lack of oxygen must somehow be responsible for the hot pink blush he could feel creeping up his ears.

"Sam? Want another 'nog?"

What, seriously, what did he ever do? Sam groaned, ran his hand over his face, and took the offered bottle. Did he want another eggnog? No, not really. This one might push him over the edge into some sort of 'nog related coma. It was possible; it had happened to Dean last year.

So did he want another 'nog? No. But as he struggled to maintain some kind of conversation with Gabriel without looking at the most garish boxer shorts in the history of all human kind, he decided he probably needed one.

That was the mentality that took the two of them down to their last bottles.

Time no longer had any meaning.

They were stifled, suffocated and very, very drunk.

Almost as drunk as they were bored.

After Elevator Dude Guy told them that the technician couldn't get to the store until tomorrow morning, but the management was offering to pay for any expenses incurred during the day, Sam and Gabriel both honestly wondered how they were going to survive another ten hours without going utterly insane.

Gabriel puffed air up over his face, ruffling his hair, which had flopped into a mess.

"Wanna have sex?"

Sam seriously considered this proposal.

He had bought Dean that cherry-chocolate lube as a gag gift. He would rather break into that than Jo's WiiU.


	11. Chapter 11

"But yeah, it's open to interpretation, and I always thought it was basically a breast thing."

"Oh...I thought it was an actual milkshake."

"No. It's not. It's just a dumb song and...why are we talking about this again?"

Castiel paused in measuring spices, trying to keep the phone pinned between his ear and shoulder.

"It's my ringtone."

The voice laughed. "Well...maybe get a new one?"

"I don't know how."

"Maybe google it. How's it coming over there anyway?"

Castiel looked into the bowl of blended ingredients, "should it be brown?"

"Not really."

Castiel froze. "It's brown."

"How much cinnamon did you use?"

"Three table spoons."

"TEA spoons."

"Oh." Castiel poked the mixture and sighed. "Perhaps I should throw it out?"

"You can just rinse the spices off and start again." The voice advised, can't believe you've never made apple pie, even I've made pie, and I can't cook."

"I feel I'm redefining 'unable to cook'." Castiel said, "Perhaps I should just buy a pie."

"No. Nothing beats homemade."

"I'll have to run out and get more cinnamon."

"Hey, I can come with, I'm handheld remember? And we've never been out, so, this could be fun." He was joking around again, and it was nice to hear after a long, long day at work. Castiel slipped into his coat and left his apartment.

"You know," the guy said, conversationally, as Castiel went down the stairs in his apartment building. "It's been what, two months, and you've never asked me my name."

"I thought that was...against the rules or something."

"Do we have rules?" the voice mused, "I thought we were playing pretty fast and loose with the whole 'sex line' arrangement here anyway. What with you not charging me and me teaching you how to bake...it's Dean. My name's Dean."

"Good." Castiel said, nonsensically.

"Cool...now, are you going for spices or..."

"I'm on my way...what are you doing right now?"

"Nothing much, just having a beer, long day at work, you know? Really getting tired of humping palettes of ketchup and microwave ovens around at the warehouse."

"Perhaps we could trade careers?"

"Yeah, like you don't love working at the call centre."

"I like it because I'm good at it...but, I don't find it very interesting or..." Castiel stopped on the street, "actually, I don't like it very much at all."

"Welcome to the wonderful world of work." Dean said, "we all hate work Cas, but, hey, at least you've got me to come home to."

"Only, I don't."

There was a long, long silence, and Castiel could have bitten his tongue off. It had been two months since Dean had first called him, and over that time he'd become first used to the other man's calls, and then to anticipate them, and finally, to depend on them. There was a deep dissatisfaction growing in him, based on the knowledge that Dean didn't need or care for him the way Castiel had come to care about him. And that he would never really have Dean, not really.

"Sorry," he said, quietly.

Dean was silent, and Castiel felt a rising panic, what had he done? How could he have been so stupid?

"Dean, I didn't mean to...I know this isn't..."

"Isn't what?" Dean said, "Isn't 'real', right? Well, dude, if you feel that way, just hang up now."

"I don't want to."

"I don't want you to either. But if you're going to go around thinking that I don't think this is real, then...I'd rather you didn't, think that, is all."

"I won't...I just, I didn't know how you felt about...this."

"I feel like it's actually worth me coming home now," Dean said, "that I have someone I care about who isn't a direct blood relative, and that's pretty fucking unprecedented...and that you're the best thing that's happened to me in...I don't know how long, and I'm so glad it was you who picked up that first time, every time, and not some other guy."

Castiel felt a soft, stupid smile cross his face. He wasn't the type of person who had his heart warmed, but there it was, warm, in his chest, and he was pretty sure Dean's words were tattooed there on it, like some kind of teeny tiny prayer, stitched into him.

Unfortunately, as he'd stopped to enjoy the warm feeling in his chest, on a busy, post-Christmas street, someone instantly walked into him shoulder, knocking him off balance.

He dropped his phone, which landed on the street, and broke in half along the hinge, sprinkling rhinestones all over the place. He stood, looking down at it, and then loss hit him like a bullet to the chest.

Dean. He only knew Dean's first name. Not his phone number, not even in what area he lived.

Dean only existed within that phone, and now it was broken.

He scooped up the fragments of his phone, turned around, and went after the idiot who'd knocked him.

"Excuse me," he said, grabbing the stranger's shoulder with his free hand.

The guy turned around, his own cellphone clamped to his ear.

"Cas?" he said.

And Castiel froze.

Without taking his eyes off of him, the guy closed the phone, and glanced down at the cracked and broken thing in Castiel's hand.

"Cas...is that you?"

Castiel looked at him, this guy, slightly taller than him, wider, with dark eyes and dark hair, and probably the best bone structure Castiel had ever seen.

"Dean?"


	12. Chapter 12

Dean did not want to spend any more time in purgatory, even if it was only a dream. And he did not want to find out who the next spectre was, because he had a bad feeling that Gabriel would be the least of his worries.

He looked around the dank, dark forest, and wondered exactly what it was he was supposed to be getting. How do you get rid of angel ghosts in your own dream?

"You don't," a voice drawled from behind him. "You think you have any control over your subconscious?"

Dean turned on his heel and saw, for a moment, a face that he recognised, but before he could make out any features, it had gone. Dean quietly bent down and picked up a fallen tree branch. If he had to die like this, at least he'd take his assailant with him.

Or, failing that, give the guy some nasty splinters.

Dean looked around the silent space where the voice had come from, and quietly moved on. As he plodded through the forest of purgatory, he soon realised it was… well, supposedly empty. He couldn't see or hear anything but trees. But he felt something. Some presence, some… thing. Like when you can feel someone watching you, without seeing that they're looking at you. He didn't like it.

"Alright, that's enough. Show your goddamn self, or…"

_Or what?_

Dean thought, and thought hard. Sure, he was being plagued by these ghosts, but it was still his dream, and he wasn't going to be their mouse. As he thought and thought, the forest seemed to flicker and fade around him, like a staticky playback on a VHS tape. Dean caught onto it, feeling a gap, a shift, a break… he carried on thinking, and soon, the purgatory forest melted away, leaving in its' stead…

"Ugh. You know, I think the other place was less scary."

There, sat in the middle of a Plucky Pennywhistle's eatery, was Lucifer.

"Lucifer?" Dean nearly dropped his tree branch. "You're my ghost of Christmas present?"

"What? No." Lucifer scoffed. "Who said anything about Christmas? I'm just here to wax wroth and test your blah-de-blah. Who do you think you are, Charles Dickens?"

And with that said, Lucifer made a lazy flicking motion with his hand, and sent Dean flying back into the wall. He slithered down and landed with a "crump" in the ball pit.

"You know, I never did like you." Lucifer advanced on him, flicking his hand again to this time send Dean flying into the fun house on his left. "Mostly," Lucifer continued, not breaking step, "because if it wasn't for you, little Samuel would have just lay down like a good dog. But you just had to go against the plan."

"But…" Dean gasped for breath, as the cheap, sticky plastic floor of the funhouse buckled and swayed underneath him. He struggled to his feet. "Gabriel said…"

"Fool. Do you really think I care about any of my father's word? That the prophecies mean anything? I saw my chance and I took it. The fact that the angels had their silly prophecy was just an unfortunate circumstance. It would have been perfect, but you had to come along and mess it all up."

Dean opened his mouth to respond, but was thrown backwards again, his muscles shrieking with pain as he collided into the wall of mirrors.

"I know what you think about it, Dean." Lucifer hissed, advancing on him. "You think that if you'd let it all go, then everything would have been better off. You, Sam, Bobby, Kevin… Castiel… It never would have happened. And you're right. If you and your stupid brother had just rolled over and played dead, then everyone in the world would have had a nice, easy rapture. But you had to drag it out. You and your father. Both gluttons for punishment."

Dean shook off the broken glass and pushed himself to his feet once more.

"Yeah… I guess we are."

"All those deals with demons." Lucifer chuckled. "You know the saddest thing about your little family?"

"What?"

"I'd love to say you'll all meet again in hell… but Daddy redeemed himself… and anyone else who might be down there…" he tutted. "Well, you know how it goes."

Dean felt his stomach drop, and wasn't sure if it was to do with the tremoring floor or not.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Can you honestly think of anyone you know who hasn't dealt with a demon at some point?" Lucifer chuckled. "Anyone at all?"

Dean watched as Lucifer laughed, and the fun house filled with black and red smoke. It seeped in from between the plastic tiles, the holes in the netting, and the stitches that held the polyvinyl sheets together.

How many people had he known that had gone to hell? How many old friends of his had become demons?

The black smoke twisted around his ankles, gripping his legs, clawing its way up his body. And all the while, Lucifer laughed and laughed.

"Mom…" Dean muttered, feeling his heart harden. She had made a deal with Azazael. That was how he had started off this whole stupid mess that was Dean's life. Dean could feel every muscle in his body tensing, and not because of the smoke that seemed to dig at his flesh.

Lucifer just stood here, laughing and laughing.

It was before Dean even knew what he was doing that he felt his fist connect with the side of the fallen angel's face.

Oh god.

He had punched Satan.

In the face.

The whole scene seemed to freeze, before fracturing. Lucifer, the smoke, the playhouse, shattered like it had all been painted on a china plate that had been dropped from a great height. Dean was left, standing in a space that was just… white. White floor, white ceiling, white walls…

He sat down, heavily.

His entire family was so completely caught up in demons and angels and souls and hell… there was no escape. He had always felt like everything was his fault, he still felt like everything was his fault. But now, here he was in some white room, wondering if maybe it wasn't anyone's fault. Maybe they were just screwed from the get go.

He sighed.

Some Christmas Present.


	13. Chapter 13

The rescue mission took hours to organise, mostly because it was Sam who had to run between Dean and everyone else around the front lawn giving orders, which had to be relayed up chains of fairy lights by excitable gold cupids to the roof, where Becky, draped in blue sequins as the 'virgin' Mary, passed the message on to everyone in the rooftop nativity.

Then Sam had to sit tensely in the snow, or, sit as well as he could with Chuck clinging to his back, and watch as the characters in the nativity scene, the only people with hands and workable legs, slowly pulled out the staples holding them to the tarpaper roof, and climbed awkwardly down the drain pipe to convene with the ground squad, which consisted of Sam (and Chuck) with seven gnomes in butt-less chaps, Frank the snowman (already grumbling about having to leave his spot) and Garth, a very skinny reindeer, with only one antler, and a red flashing nose.

They congregated around Dean, and listened to the plan that he'd come up with.

"Ok, so, gnomes, you're going to keep a watch, and let us know if a curtain so much as twitches, Sam, Garth and...uh...Chuck, you're the fastest we've got, so you're going to be running messages between groups, if there's a problem, I need to know right away. Frank, you keep track of who's in and out of the yard, no one gets left behind on this one." He looked to the nativity group, "Wise –but-sexy-men, Bobby, Rufus...Mr. Colt, I need you to take the angel's legs, while King Herod, Mary and the Shepherd take his body."

Bobby, discarding his gold mitre for a black sock one of the gnomes had found on the lawn (probably left behind by one of the owners 'dates') bent down and streaked mud over his cheeks. Rufus unwound his silver robes, revealing the spandex pants underneath and Colt removed his emerald green turban and waistcoat, showing that underneath the owner had dressed him in French knickers, and nipple pasties.

Herod (usually known to the nativity set as Dick) nodded his agreement to the plan (he was trying to get it on with 'virgin' Mary and she was really a sucker for a good cause). The Shepherd (Crowley to the rest of them) just nodded, he wasn't really one for getting involved in stuff like this, but, one day it might be him in the garbage, and he'd need some chips to call in then.

They set off, the Nativity set creeping across the road, from garbage can to low garden wall, to the shadow of a tree. The gnomes scattered, their plaster bottoms clinking on the asphalt, Frank watched from a covert position behind a hydrangea, and Sam, with Chuck in tow, took up a position next to Dean, ready to run a message over if the situation called for it.

Thankfully, everything went fine, until they'd picked up the angel, and were carrying it back across the road. This was by far the most dangerous part of the mission, they were out in the open, exposed.

The gnomes sang the opening lines of 'Good King Wenceslas' in an alarm chorus.

And then a car came onto the street, turning the corner and speeding up as it hit the straight stretch of road.

Everyone froze.

The nativity set, baring the angel aloft, paused, halfway across the road, unable to run, unable to move without giving their secret life away. The car came barrelling down the road, and Dean had only moments to look across the street, and see how far away the angel was, still, before he threw himself forwards, the staples holding down his feet pulling free of the wet ground, his useless, moulded together legs taking him one, two, three jumps into the street, and under the wheels of the car.

There was a screech of brakes, which did nothing to hide the sound of plastic shattering, then the car reeled across the road, missing the angel and it's rescuers entirely, roaring off into the night.

Sam ran into the road, pushing with his nose at Dean's fallen body, trying to get it back to the yard, to safety. After a few seconds, Becky was at his side, then the gnomes. Together they got Dean back onto the lawn, and a few minutes later, the rescue team arrived, and laid the angel down on the earth next to him.

Dean's legs were smashed to pieces, and a ragged crack extended upwards, through his torso.

He reached over and put his plastic hand in that of the angel, who, up close, was even better looking.

"I suppose I should be glad I don't have any nerve endings," Dean said.

Castiel's eyes were so blue that Dean suspected his manufacturers of using banned dyes to make them. But they were so beautiful that he couldn't look away.

"You could have shattered." Castiel said.

"I didn't."

"You saved my life."

"Yeah well," Dean tipped himself sideways, so they were nose to nose. "It wasn't entirely for unselfish reasons."

The next afternoon, when Gabriel emerged from his house in a pair of Christmas themed boxers (candy canes and monkeys) to grab his paper, he found that someone had been dicking around with his Christmas ornaments.

Someone had taken the top reindeer from his hilarious mounted couple, and cuddled it up with the virgin Mary, in the bushes. The Wise-but-sexy-men were off the roof, playing pinochle, King Herod and the Shepherd were frenching in the shadow of the porch, and, on the clean snow covered ground by his mailbox, his Sexy-Santa was spooning an angel that he'd never seen before, a trail of smashed plastic leading from the road to where they were lying, which he saw, was actually the legs of his Santa.

"Oh, what have they done to you now Sparticus?" he muttered, knowing that he'd have to make some new legs out of wood, crazy glue and spackle, because there was no way he was taking down his Santa, no way.

Gabriel reflected that he did look quite hot wrapped around the angel though, so, even if it was a random bit of junk left on his lawn, he'd find a space for them, together somewhere.


	14. Chapter 14

Sam looked up at the bag covering the security camera. It had been a solution to many privacy issues, least of all Gabriel's tights. Peeing being the main necessity, given the amount of nog drunk between the two of them. Neither had a problem using the empty bottles as alternative urinals, but Sam was not as exhibitionist as Gabriel, and had demanded privacy.

Now he had privacy. And Gabriel was still looking at him in an appraising, if bored way.

"You're hot. I'm clearly a sex god, or how else would I be comfortable enough in my manhood to wear this monstrosity of a costume. I think sex is possibly the most fun we can have inside of this elevator."

Sam wanted to respond to that, but his words had, apparently disappeared on him.

"You are gay, aren't you?" Gabriel looked at him, slightly more quizzically than before. "My Gaydar is never wrong."

"Well… yeah, I'm bi, but… I don't…"

"In a relationship?" Gabriel said it in the same way most people would say "is it herpes?"

"Not… not right now…"

"Then what? What could possibly turn you off from this?" Gabriel gestured to himself, the picture of not-sympathetic.

"I'd feel… kinda exposed."

Gabriel stared at him.

Gabriel laughed.

As Sam quietly sulked, Gabriel crawled closer, to sit next to him, still laughing.

"You're kidding me! A bisexual guy who… who doesn't like getting it on in public? Shit! What else, are you also secretly a unicorn?"

"Shut up."

"Ooh, no, you're a wizard!"

Sam went to tell Gabriel to shut up again, but knew he wouldn't listen. So, after a quick check that the privacy bag was still secure, he grabbed Gabriel by the back of the neck and pulled him into a kiss.

After that, shoes, pants and shirts (and, thank god, elf hats) came off pretty quickly. Sam wasn't really sure how it happened, but everything sort of faded out for a little while after that, everything sort of fading out until physical sensation was the only thing left. Nog sex was great. When he started to return to his senses, he was leaning up against the elevator wall, the smell of cherry-chocolate burning his nostrils, with Gabriel finishing up behind him, spanking his ass with the plastic candy cane.

When they'd finished, the two men fell apart, gasping for breath, snatching a few last kisses as they slumped side by side to the elevator floor. Gabriel handed Sam his wadded up tights, and gestured breathlessly that they could be used for clean-up. Sam nodded and started wiping away various fluids, when he looked up and realised something.

"Gabriel?"

"Yeah?"

"When did the bag fall off the camera?"

Gabriel thought for a moment.

"Probably shortly after you slammed me against the wall."

Ah, thought Sam. He cleared his throat and pressed the communications button.

"Uh… Elevator guy? Are you…. You still there?"

"Oh, I'm totally here." Sam did not like Elevator Dude Guy's tone. "D'you want to put some clothes on? Or not, it's your elevator."

Sam slumped on the floor. Gabriel pouted sympathetically, before sitting down beside him.

"Don't listen to him, Sammy; I think you're fine without clothes." Gabriel rested his head on Sam's shoulder, and Sam actually felt the last, solitary strand of his will to argue dissolve. He closed his eyes.

"Merry freakin' Christmas, Gabriel."

"And a happy goddamn Hanukah. You gonna go to sleep?"

"Yeah. Maybe I'll wake up and this'll be a dream. I actually got knocked out by a falling Christmas display, and I'm currently actually crushed under a giant plaster of paris Santa. This is all just a fever dream while the paramedics extract me."

"Ah." Gabriel nodded, standing up and shuffling into his clothes, before rummaging through Sam's bags. "Well I hope I was a satisfactory fever dream."

"One of my all-time best." Sam yawned, before letting his head fall back against the elevator wall and drifting off. Gabriel smiled to himself and dug a particularly ugly Christmas jumper out of one of Sam's bags. He unfolded it and used it to cover up Sam's chest, before putting his coat over his legs. Gabriel looked up at the camera, and waved into the lens, before hooking the privacy bag over it again. Then he sat down next to Sam and fell asleep. Merry freakin' Christmas indeed.


	15. Chapter 15

For several long moments, Dean looked at Castiel, and Castiel looked at Dean.

Dean was carrying a bottle of beer wrapped in a brown paper bag in the hand that wasn't holding his cell phone. He had on the boots and jeans that he wore for work, and the blue button down that marked him out as a manager, making him, quite literally a blue collar worker.

Castiel was in his white shirt and black slacks, his tie discarded, a smear of apple juice and cinnamon across the front of his shirt. There was flour in his dark hair, and on the bridge of his nose. His face was flushed with the heat of baking, and his nose slightly rosy from the cold of the street, a nervous furrow in his brows, blue eyes fixed on his face as he moistened his cold chapped lips.

Dean had never seen anyone look so effortlessly sexual in his whole life.

This thought manifested itself as "Hey."

Castiel's panic manifested itself in a small sound, most closely represented phonetically, by the letters 'eep'.

Dean grinned nervously. "So, all this time you've been hiding around the corner from my general store?"

"I wasn't hiding." Castiel said.

"I know, I'm kidding. God this weird."

"You broke my phone."

"I thought you'd hung up on me."

"I wouldn't do that."

Dean's smile gained in confidence, and Castiel wished that it hadn't, Dean was too good looking for him already, without adding that smile into the mix. And God, it was one hell of a smile.

"You know, my place is just down the street," Dean said, "do you want to have a beer with me?"

Castiel blinked, and one hand crept up to smooth his hair, which, unhelpfully, just made it stand up more, scattering flour lightly over him.

"I have a pie I'm still trying to make."

Dean dipped his head to indicate that he should have known better. "Ok, yours it is then."

This was not the outcome Castiel had had in mind. The tension of being with Dean, in the flesh, was unremitting, like being constantly barraged by an electric current. He felt the need to disengage as soon as possible, but as if his muscles were locked in place by DC electricity, he found himself unable to let go.

They walked back to his apartment, and, once they had climbed the stairs, Castiel let Dean inside, where his kitchen still looked like a bakery had exploded over it. Dean whistled, and Castiel remembered that he had forgotten to buy cinnamon.

He started to put the pie together the best way he could figure how, and without speaking, Dean started to help.

Together they lined a pie plate, put the apple syrup mixture in, and made a lid for it. Castiel but it the in the oven, and set his over timer, which looked like an oven timer.

Dean poured beer into two glasses that he helped himself to, and handed one to Castiel, who took it, and drank the contents for want of anything else to do.

"Cas, you know we've been talking for a while..." Dean started, "you like me, right?"

"Yes." Castiel said, "but...um...I think that perhaps I'm not what you wanted when you called."

"Not gay, or not hot, or not looking?"

"I am gay...I don't know if I'm looking. I'm not hiding."

Castiel wondered mildly if that was true.

"Not hot then?"

"I don't think so."

"Well, I do, and I'm an independent, third party observer." Dean grinned. "So, if I wanted to get naked, and have sex with you, you'd be for that?"

Castiel blinked a few times. He couldn't actually remember the last time he'd had sex.

No, wait, Balthazar, Harbour day 2003.

Still, that hardly counted, for one thing, they'd been in international waters, with an uncertain dateline. It might as well have not happened at all.

"I would." He said.

"Great, bedroom this way?" Dean asked.

Castiel nodded, and watched as Dean headed for his bedroom, stripping off his shirt on the way.

Castiel reflected that he'd never seen such a fine grouping of back muscles on anyone, to date.

He quickly followed them.


	16. Chapter 16

"Frosty, the Snowman," a voice sang, somewhere above Sam's ear, "had a six pack and a dick, he was made of snow but he sure did know how to get himself some kicks…"

Sam struggled to wake up, remembering that yes, he was in an elevator, yes he had been drinking a lot, and yes, it wasn't just his head that was going to start aching soon.

Gabriel was stood in the corner, filling an empty 'nog bottle and singing to himself.

"Frosty, the Snowman, had a thing for leather chaps, so he wandered through Queen Avenue, with his finely sculpted baps…"

"How the hell did you ever get okay'd to work with kids?"

"Bribery, corruption and being the only sucker dumb enough to take the job," he put the bottle down on the floor and turned to Sam with an awkward smile. "Right now is normally where I'd offer breakfast, but we're not exactly in an easy access pancake environment."

Sam stared at the debris that carpeted their cell.

"I think we've eaten all the candy I bought."

"Well damn. We're going hungry, I guess." Gabriel sat down next to Sam with a heavy thud, before slowly leaning into Sam's personal space. "So… there's some… news."

"Oh?" Sam wasn't sure he wanted to hear.

"Well, I checked my email this morning…" he produced a smartphone from his pocket and fiddled with it for a few seconds, before handing it over to Sam. "There's… well, don't freak out."

On the phone's screen, a paused video of black and white security footage that looked oddly familiar.

"We're on youtube?"

"It's called the "Elfavator Files". Editted highlights of the security footage… And I do mean highlights."

"Great. That's all I wanted. You reckon it's Dude Guy's doing?"

"Maybe not directly, but… yeah. There's a lot of remixes from different people… some are really kind of funny."

Sam stared at Gabriel. "You watched them?"

"What? I have a thing for voyeurism." Gabriel shrugged. "Why else would I wander 'round a mall in tights?"

Sam sighed and handed Gabriel back his phone, not even sure how he was supposed to respond to that. Gabriel stared at the opposite wall, watching their reflections in the polished steel.

"You know… I hear tell that sex can make things awkward in situations like this… We didn't make things awkward, did we?"

Sam thought about it for a moment.

"No more than it already was."

"Cool." Gabriel slowly slithered down the wall, until he was resting his head on Sam's shoulder. "You know, I'd really like to not be in this elevator any more."

"Me too."

"You're a good sport, Sam. And if we ever get out of here, I'm treating you to steak."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I mean… I know we don't really know each other, but you seem like a cool guy… most people would have stabbed me by now."

Sam thought about this for a moment, before patting Gabriel on the knee, hoisting himself to his feet and punching the call button.

"Morning, dudes." Elevator Dude Guy did not even sound slightly sheepish. Sam gave a thin lipped, dangerous smile.

"Hey, guy. How's the "get us the crap outta here" plan coming?"

"Slowly, man, the managers have a lot of health and safety issues to consider, you know… but they say you're top of their list, and…"

"Would it help at all if I said I'm Sam Winchester?"

Dude Guy was silent. He cleared his throat.

"Say again?"

"Sam Winchester. Compensation Lawyer? Recently successfully sued Walmart for ten thousand dollars when a woman pulled a hamstring in their store? And that was just a hamstring, nothing like this. And when you factor in the unapproved public release of footage concerning the two of us…"

"I'll go get the manager."

Sam could almost hear Dude Guy's office chair spinning as he scrambled for the door. Still with that dangerous smile, he turned to Gabriel.

"Get on your phone. Tell everyone you know to come here and wait in the car lot." He took his own phone out of his pocket. "We're getting the hell out of here, and I mean today."


	17. Chapter 17

The sign on the door says 'Done Huntin'' and no one who goes there really gets the joke. Cas doesn't even get the joke, and that just makes Dean smile more every time he sees that sign, nailed up beside the porch, a sign that might as well read 'Heaven'.

Though, he thinks they've got heaven beat.

Today, as he kicks off his boots in the porch, and puts a sack of groceries on the floor so he can remove his jacket, he can smell toast, and baking, and he knows that Cas must be awake, because Sam can't bake for shit, and Castiel is the only one who seems obsessed with the range, always cooking something, biscuits, cookies, stews, bread, buns, crumpets, and pie. Most of all pie, and it's like he knows Dean can't resist any pie, let alone Cas's pie, which he sometimes thinks is dosed with angel dust or something. It's just that good.

There are keys on the wall behind the counter in the hall, and he knows for a quick count that they've got the place to themselves, which is good, because after a trip to town he needs a cup of coffee to warm himself up, maybe a homemade cookie or whatever Cas has whipped up, and a sit by the fire in the sitting room.

Then maybe some slow afternoon sex, when he's got some feeling back in his toes.

He takes the groceries into the kitchen, and finds Castiel sliding cookies from a baking sheet onto a warm plate.

Castiel reads far too many cutesy magazine articles. He's a big fan of warm plates, coasters and looking at thread counts on things. But, Dean figures he's earned the right to obsess over the small stuff.

"Cookies?" he says, putting the groceries away.

"I made extra for us." Castiel says, pouring coffee and looking so easy in his floury jeans and what is unmistakeably Dean's shirt that Dean can almost believe Castiel is just a normal guy, who didn't pull him out of hell, or go with him to purgatory, and who can't turn on the radio, or start a fire in the range just by looking at it.

"Sweet, can we go in the sitting room, or is it all cleaned up?"

"No, I haven't vacuumed for the guests yet."

"Good."

They go into the sitting room, and Dean stretches out on the cord sofa so that Cas can lie down with him, and pass him cookies, if necessary. Seriously, if Dean didn't regularly hunt in the woods (just deer and duck now, thank God) he'd probably be five hundred pounds by now.

A fire snaps to light in the grate and Dean mock-glares.

"No fair."

Castiel has the nerve to look smug. "I do it because I can."

"Someone's going to write you a ticket for misuse of angel powers."

Castiel snuggles up closer, his hair tickling Dean's chin. "If I hadn't, we wouldn't have this place."

It's true. Castiel was the one who'd poofed up the money to buy the little hotel out in Vermont, no one asking where the money came from, but, from news items at the time, Dean figured it might be the Triads. Still, here they were, in front of a fire in a guesthouse in Vermont. Their very own place of business, with a back room for visiting hunters who needed bullets pulled out, or a look at some rare literature. They hadn't retired completely, and, Dean figured they probably never would.

"Cas," Dean finds himself saying, because, it's been five years, and, though the joke isn't getting old, he figures it's time to let Castiel in on it. "You know I was joking right?"

"About?"

"About the B&B."

Castiel closes his eyes and shakes his head, a smile slipping out of his control.

"Five years, and now he tells me."


	18. Chapter 18

Dean stared at his white walled surroundings, wishing he had anything to do other than think.

He tried to wake up. Pinching, throwing himself against walls… the room wobbled, occasionally, flickered, but he couldn't break out of it.

He knew what was happening. This dream, or nightmare, was supposed to test his faith. And his faith wouldn't need to be tested if they didn't have any other plans for him. Which meant more prophecies. Hoo-frickin'-ray.

So what had he learned tonight? Gabriel was right, for one thing. Even if you wanted to squabble over which times he'd done it on his own, the fact was he'd been lucky, real lucky. He shouldn't even be alive, he should have been dead a million times by now. And Lucifer's little hatred-gasm? Yeah, that was about right. Not only was he lucky, but he was stupid not to know it. The fact is, he had no control over what other people did with their lives, and he needed to accept that, because sometimes it even worked out for him. But he wasn't happy about it. He just wanted out of this dream, before spectre number three turned up. He ached all over. He closed his eyes and leant against the wall, letting himself slump.

"Dean?"

Dean's eyes snapped open, and for a moment, the white room flickered again.

"Cas?"

"Dean, this way!"

Dean looked towards the sound of Castiel's voice, and sure enough, in the distance, there was a change in the light. A room beyond the white room.

He stumbled to his feet and ran towards the Angel's voice. The room grew nearer, but Dean couldn't make out any details… but it had to be the motel room, right? This was Cas, waking him up.

He was in the room before he could even slow his feet, and that was when the lights flicked on around him.

This was not the motel room.

This was a laboratory at Roman industries.

Castiel stood in front of him, looking the same as he ever had, but somehow different. He gave Dean a strange, frowny stare that he hadn't seen in a while. Of course, Dean thought, he might be imagining it. It might be an illusion caused by the massive, withered wings that floated behind him like torn silk.

"Cas?"

"… In a sense."

"You're… you're the third spectre? But you're alive."

"A part of me is." Castiel nodded. "Think of an Angel sword as… a stick of dynamite. That penetrates an Angel's grace and blows them apart, completely. Anything less than that merely chips away a tiny fragment of it."

Dean stared at Castiel.

"I'm not going to say it. You want me to ask you what you're doing here, but I know, ok, I already know." Dean kicked one of the laboratory stools and sent it clattering across the floor, before it bounced up and collided with a table. "Just let me wake up, please?"

"Dean…"

"No, whatever it is, no. Let me out of here."

"You know I can't."

"But why not?" Dean kicked another stool. "Maybe if I wreck the place I'll wake myself up, huh?" He kicked the stool again, and it bounced across the room, through Cas. It dented a cabinet where it landed.

Castiel just stared at him, head tilted slightly to one side.

"Why are you so afraid of me?"

Alarm bells were ringing in Dean's brain. His hands flew to whatever they could, smashing, beating and breaking anything they touched. His thoughts drowned out Castiel's words, _wake up wake up wake up WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP._

Eventually, Dean ran out of things to throw. Castiel stood, staring at him sorrowfully.

"Why are you upset?"

"Because I hate being used like this! I hate having to be tested, to be taught, to put up with all this Angelic crap. And you, Cas. Look at what they do to you. All of the crap you've been through on my account and you still have to turn up and teach me some lesson. And you can't even leave. You pulled the short straw and got sent on one mission, to drag my sorry ass out of the hotbox, and then you got sucked into the shitstorm that is my life. I'm sorry, man, I really am. When I think of everything that wouldn't have happened to you if you'd just done your job and gone home… So I get it, I'm a screw up, a lucky screw up who's only survived thanks to other people giving me do-overs. Everyone I know has had their lives ruined, most of them by some extension of knowing me. You could have gone home, you could have been a good little angel if it weren't for me, so I'm sorry, ok?"

Dean and Castiel stared at each other in silence. Eventually Dean backed down.

"So go ahead."

"Dean?"

"Go ahead. You know. "The spectres wax wroth" and whatever."

Dean looked up at Castiel, who was shaking his head, sadly.

"What," Dean scoffed. "Doesn't the third spectre need to throw a bitch fit?"

"He already has." Castiel said, and suddenly everything disappeared.

Images flashed around Dean, too quick for him to even recognise most of them. Half-forgotten memories, every instance of Castiel's sacrifices, every lucky moment of his, every death, loss, gain, victory…. It all melted into one blur of colour, before whirling away into darkness and taking Dean with it.


	19. Chapter 19

_This is the last part of what is becoming known in my house as 'the sexphone saga'._

_Just to inform everyone, I have a comedy romance novel coming out in January. Follow me on twitter JollySnidge to be kept up to date on this project, and others _

When Castiel arrived at the doorway of his bedroom, Dean was down to his underwear, and throwing himself down on the bed. The bedroom itself was small, like the rest of the apartment, the double bed was bordered on both sides by walls that were only a quarter inch off from prohibiting the presence of the bed altogether. The walls were white, and, above the bed was a shelf on which Castiel kept the books he was reading, a glass of water, a clock, and a small cardboard box which contained the lube and condoms he hadn't had cause to use since he moved in.

He stood frozen so long that Dean raised an eyebrow, "If you don't want to, you don't have to."

"I do." Castiel said, as if reminding himself, "I've just...I don't know what to do."

Dean wriggled, making himself more at home on Castiel's bed, which was the most expensive one he could find, topped with a mattress which was worth half his yearly salary – sleep was a valuble commodity, like imagination, and couldn't be replaced with a substitute.

"Do you top, or bottom?"

"Either."

A smile crossed Dean's face, "Oh, we're going to have fun."

Castiel managed to uproot himself and walk to the bed, sitting down on the edge, and then moving so he was lying, fully clothed, next to Dean. When Dean kissed him, he was surprised at how quickly he responded, part of him had thought that maybe he was 'over' sex. That is was something happened to other people. Younger people, with more flexible joints, and less work to do.

He was wrong.

By the time Dean had carefully divested him of his shirt and jacket, Castiel was wriggling out of his pants and just as keen to get down to things as Dean was. He'd forgotten this kind of sex, the gleeful, rolling around the bed, warm kind that makes your stomach quiver, and your brain let go of petty concerns like, 'if we keep doing that, the whole shelf is going to come down'.

As it turned out, what Dean had meant by 'we're going to have fun' was that he was also pretty versatile when it came to what role he played in bed. An unofficial turn-based system dictated who topped who in which particular round, and after a while it became a case of who could actually summon the energy to move, and who just wanted to lie face down and moan into the mattress.

Thankfully, they were equally good at most things.

The ringing of the oven timer interrupted things, and, as it was Castiel who could feel his legs at that point, he got out of bed, and went to get the pie out of the oven, as he was naked, he did this very, very carefully.

The scene when he returned to his bedroom was nothing short of adorably disgusting.

Disgusting, because the bed looked like angry wolverines had mated on it. The sheets were pulled this way and that, sprinkled with used condoms, accidental spurts of lube, foil packets and loose feathers, the shelf over the bed was tilted, the books and other items all over the floor, the air smelt like sweat, and sex, and there was an unmistakeable handprint on the wall, in semen.

It was adorable, because in the middle of this debauched mess, head pillowed on one arm, and watching him, was Dean, half-asleep, heavy with satisfaction, and completely naked.

"Pie?" Castiel said.

Dean stretched, and then sat up, picking his way out of the chaos of the bed. "Marry me."

Castiel half-laughed. The pie did smell good, and that, mingling with the feeling in his body that only a few hours of really, really good sec could give, had left him with an almost holiday feeling.

Dean looked at him, "I'm serious," and, he picked Castiel up, so that Castiel had no choice but to wrap his legs around his waist (not that he minded).

"Marry me, Castiel."

Castiel blinked, and a number of things went through his mind, that gay marriage was still illegal in his state, that he'd only known Dean a few hours (plus a few months of conversations) and that he didn't ever want Dean to put him down, or put pants on.

What he said was, "I think you're supposed to go down on one knee."

Dean pressed their foreheads together.

"I did that, like, twice in the last hour."

Castiel kissed him.

"Third time's the charm."


	20. Chapter 20

_This chapter marks the close of "A Supernatural Christmas Carol", or, as I have come to think of it, "Angels kick Dean (and the rest of us) in the emotional balls". Whilst I do not have a book to offer, I also have a twitter ( vikkiethemimm) and a tumblr ( . ), so swing by and say hi!_

_Wishing you all a very merry Christmas- only 5 more sleeps to go!_

_Signed, Mimm (the one that isn't a semi-pro author)_

"Dean?"

Sam and Castiel stood side by side, watching as Dean thrashed and murmured on the bed. Whatever he was dreaming about, it wasn't good.

Sam glanced nervously at Castiel.

"Can't you… go in there? Wake him up?"

"No. I tried already, he… or, something, is blocking me out."

"So… what can we do?"

Castiel thought for a moment, before grabbing Dean's shoulders and shaking him.

"Dean!"

Dean bolted awake, blinked at Cas, and promptly yelled in his face.

"GAH!" Dean shouted, scrambling away from Castiel to the other end of the bed.

"Dean! Calm down!" Sam held up his hands, trying to soothe the terrified Dean. "It's cool. You're safe. Christmas Day. No ghosts."

"You…" Dean stared at Sam, beginning to get his bearings, "you shut up. And you…" Dean pointed at Cas, before getting quickly to his feet and sounding a good deal more manly. "I'm not afraid of you."

Castiel blinked at him.

"Ok."

"Ok. Sam, go get me some breakfast."

"What? No, you go get…"

"Sam, I just had a freakin' Dickensian nightmare, ok?" Dean reached into his pocket and withdrew his wallet, taking out a fifty dollar bill and handing it to Sam. "Christmas breakfast. Go get it. Keep the change, if it'll get you out of here sooner."

Sam pulled his "not sure if in a good mood, or possessed by something" face, and left, slowly, looking like someone just told Angelina Jolie that lettuce had calories.

For a while, Dean and Castiel stood there in silence, staring at the back of the motel room door. Eventually, Castiel spoke.

"I take it the spectres visited you through your dream?"

"Shut up, Cas," Dean grumbled, before taking a few short sharp strides towards the angel, grabbing either side of his head, and pulling him into an urgent kiss. Castiel blinked, his shoulders as stiff as Dean's back.

Dean eventually pulled back, letting go of Castiel's face and attempting a cocky grin, although it wobbled.

"Well c'mon, Cas, if I wanted to kiss a wall, I'd kiss a wall."

"Why… you…" Castiel was blinking so quickly Dean thought his eyelids might catch fire. "What…"

"You've done a lot for me. And… Thanks."

"Um. Ok. You're welcome, Dean."

"But we've done a lot for each other," Dean added, giving Cas a stern look. "We're maybe not equal, but we're not unequal, right?"

"If… you say so…"

"So I'm going to kiss you again, and this time, you better kiss me back."

"But… why are you…"

"Cas." Dean warned. "One thing I've learned, ok? Even if it seems like there's a revolving door in mortality especially for us, even with the amount of dumb-luck times we die and come back, life's too short for those kinda questions. So I'm gonna kiss you again now, ok?"

Castiel seemed to think about this for a moment.

"Ok."

Kissing lead to a little more, and when Sam came back from buying breakfast, the blue tie hanging on the doorknob, plus the frankly obscene sounds that were emanating from the hotel room, he decided that he really didn't want to see that.

So Sam sat in the car with a box of donuts and Metallica on the stereo, and watched people struggle through the snow.

Merry Christmas, he thought. And God bless us, every freakin' one.


	21. Chapter 21

_By the way, even though I only put 'by Mimm' on chapter one of Elfavator and A Deanmas Carol, they are both solely her stories. This is another AU by me _

Dean was spending Christmas Eve in jail.

For the third time, in as many years.

More accurately, it was the third time that Sam had refused to bail him out, the seventh time, overall.

This year, he was in jail for ploughing his car through a nativity scene on the front lawn of a little church about seven miles outside of the town where he lived. The year before that he'd fallen asleep at the wheel and gone off the road, into a family of snowmen. The year before that, he'd gotten into a fight with a guy dressed as Santa and been arrested for drunk and disorderly conduct (and for beating ten shades of stupid out of Santa).

Dean did not have a problem with alcohol.

Eleven months out of the year, he was fine. Not sober as a judge, but...sober enough, at the appropriate hours. He drank at night, at home or in a bar, like any other normal person.

It was only in December that he started drinking at work, in his car, at the Gap, in his garage and once, under a bridge with nine hobos and a dog named Frank.

He was not at his best in the festive season.

The door to the little cell in the town jail slid open, and the officer who'd arrested him right out from under the baby Jesus pushed someone else into the room. He was wearing a coat that instantly had Dean thinking 'sex crime' and when he turned around his expression was of bedraggled confusion.

"Hey buddy," Dean said, he was bored, and really hoping that the guy wasn't a flasher, or a stalker, or some kind of addict. Last year he'd spent 36 hours with a coke head who had sung 'The 12 days of Christmas' wrongly, approximately 18,000 times.

He was lucky he hadn't ended up on a murder charge.

The guy sat down on the bench next to him and rooted in one coat pocket. Dean was hoping for cigarettes, but the guy pulled out a wrapped up takeout burger instead and opened it up.

"Wish I'd brought snacks."

The guy tore the burger in half and handed him some without a word.

"Thanks. Where'd you get it from?"

"I work at Hamburger Heaven." He said tonelessly. "Worked."

"That where they arrested you?"

"Yes."

"What'd you do?" Dean wasn't particularly interested, but, the guy wasn't drunk or stoned or crazy, and he actually smelt nice. So, he was inclined to be pleasant. If he was going to be spending Christmas in a cell, at least it was with someone sane, who smelt like frying onions and maple syrup.

"I quit my job...and when I'd done that, I stole a burger, I went outside, and I put a rock through the window."

"Why?"

The guy shrugged. "The window because I've wanted to do it since my first day. The burger because I wanted something to eat after I was arrested."

"If you hated it, why did you work there so long?"

The guy actually turned to look at him, a look of confusion knitting his brows together. "I don't know...money I guess. I have a degree in religions and ethics, but, there were no jobs for me, and I took the only work available."

"Well, congrats on quitting your shitty job." Dean leant back against the wall and finished off his half of the burger. "When they let you out of here, you can totally come work for me."

"Where do you work?"

"A hamburger joint."

Dean laughed, and the other guy blinked at him, then realised it was a joke and relaxed, though he didn't smile.

"I'm Dean," Dean said.

"Castiel."

"Please tell me they gave you a name badge with that on."

Castiel shook his head. "Mine has said Clarence for the last eight years."

"Rough." Dean scratched the back of his neck. "I'm in here for drunk driving."

"You shouldn't do that."

"I know, I could hurt someone."

"You could hurt yourself too."

Dean shrugged. "I don't do it often, it's just, Christmas, I hate Christmas. The songs, the commercials, the food, the fake snow, the gifts and the shitty television."

Castiel nodded. "Christmas is annoying."

"It doesn't annoy me. I just hate it."

Dean got up, stretched, and walked around the cell. He wasn't feeling as drunk now, which was good. He'd been in the cell for three hours, and the hamburger had helped with the sobering up. He felt almost back to normal. Which was depressing.

He glanced at Castiel and could see the blue and white uniform under his trench coat. He shook his head. "They made you wear that every day for eight years?"

Castiel looked down. "Not the coat, but yes."

"Jesus."

"Why do you hate Christmas?" Castiel asked suddenly.

Dean shrugged. "What's to like? It's stupid."

Castiel looked at him for a long moment.

"I quit my job today, because I found out that my boyfriend of nine years, screwed me out of a social care placement, the one I wanted to do when I left college. We both applied for it, and he got in, but I didn't. I thought it was my fault, and he was understanding when I had to go work at Hamburger Heaven...today I found that he'd made a Facebook page in my name, and covered it with inappropriate material...it stopped me getting the placement, and every job I've applied for in the last seven years."

"Fuck." Dean said succinctly.

"And, to make it worse, tonight someone drove through the display I made for my church. It was the first thing I've been proud of in seven years."

Dean clenched his hand and pressed his finger nails into his palm. "That...uh...that might have been me."

Castiel blinked at him.

"I was drunk, I drove through a nativity scene...did yours have two palm trees, kind of leaning together, with a star on top?"

Castiel sighed. "Yes."

"Sorry dude."

"I suppose you didn't mean to wreck it."

"That doesn't make it ok."

"I'd rather my display than someone's child."

Dean felt abruptly very ashamed of himself.

"Ok, I promise not to drink and drive again, on the broken body of your papier-mâché Virgin Mary."

"I hope you won't."

"I could also kill your boyfriend."

"Ex-boyfriend...as soon as I get out of here that is." Castiel looked hopefully at the door. "While we wait you could tell me why you hate Christmas."

"Dude, you don't want to know, it's lame."

Castiel glared. "It took me two weeks, just to make those trees..."

"Ok," Dean held up his hands. "Alright, it's just that...when I was a kid, we had these really great Christmases, pretty much as Hallmark as it can get. Tree, lights, fireplace, turkey...then, when I was ten, I had this fight, with my Dad. It was stupid, and it started because of something I can't even remember. But I sulked, all Christmas day, and it ruined it. We had this screaming fight after lunch, I stamped all over my gifts, and on some of my brother's too, so he started crying. My Mom was upset with me and my Dad for yelling...and I got spanked and sent to my room without dinner."

"That does sound..."

"That's not the reason." Dean said. "We made it up a couple of days later...but, that year, my Mom died." Dean was looking at the wall opposite. "It was just before Christmas, and so we didn't really celebrate. And then, every year there was the anniversary, or my Dad would try with gifts and the food and stuff, but it was never the same. Then, a couple of years ago, he died...and my brother, he's busy, a lawyer, so, he doesn't really have the time for Christmas, and, I've never been with anyone over the holidays so...I just stopped celebrating." He shook of his daze, "So, I resent it being pushed in my face, you know? This, perfect, imaginary Christmas that I could have had if I hadn't been such a snotty brat."

Castiel looked across the cell at him. "Children have tantrums."

"I know that." Dean muttered.

"Your mother would want you to be happy at Christmas."

"And you know that how?"

"Because, that's what mothers are supposed to want...and, because she made Christmas perfect for you when she was alive." Castiel said evenly.

Dean was about to say something when the door to the cell opened. A tall, slim guy with dark skin and a dark suit was standing beside a police officer.

"Raphael," Castiel said, standing up.

"They called me at work. What the hell were you thinking?" the guy snapped. "This is totally not acceptable Castiel, how is my salary going to be enough for both of us? Did you even think about me before pulling this stunt?"

"I'm sorry," Castiel said, "did you pay my bail?"

"I brought your wallet." Raphael said.

Castiel walked towards the door, stopping on the way to say. "Dean, I'll bail you out as well."

"No, you don't have to-"

"On the condition that you come to my apartment, and keep me company on Christmas."

Dean looked at him. Castiel had that kind of look, the look various people had given him for brief moments throughout his life. It was the look that said 'I want to help you' but, under it was a look that said 'I need your help'. It was a combination Dean had never seen before.

"I'll pay you back."

"I know." Castiel said.

Raphael gritted his teeth with impatience. "Castiel. Hurry up."

Castiel went to the door, and Dean followed. To the officer waiting there, Castiel explained that he wanted to bail Dean out of jail. The officer, who'd had more than enough of Raphael, appreciated the politeness Castiel had shown both on arrest, and now he was being released, so she agreed.

"You cannot be serious," Raphael said, "you don't have money to waste, Castiel. And if you think I'm going to pay out to help you when you're the one who can't get an actual job-"

Castiel punched him in the face, and the turned to the officer, who had caught Raphael's unconscious body.

"I'm sorry about that."

"Hey, I saw it," Officer Harvelle said, "he went at you, self defence man." She dragged Raphael into the vacant cell and locked him in. "Anyway, he's been pissing everyone off since he walked in."

Castiel paid his and Dean's bail with his credit card, and gave Officer Jo thirty dollars as a kind of Christmas bonus.

While they stood on the freezing, snow covered street waiting for a cab, Castiel muttered, "I suppose I need to find a job as soon as everything opens up after Christmas."

"I could recommend you to some people at work," Dean said, "I mean, it's not Hamburger Heaven, but the pay is good, and you get to work with some great people."

"Where?" Castiel asked.

"Hey Dean," A skinny guy in a green canvas jacket walked up to them, grinning, "Christmas again already?"

"Yeah, Jo just let me out, I'm gonna owe Cas here my bail though." Dean gestured between them, "Cas, this is Garth, my partner."

"Partner as in..."

"As in we drive around together fighting crime." Garth said, "Actually, mostly just breaking up drunk fights and pulling over people with expired insurance."

"You're a cop." Castiel said.

"Yeah," Dean said feeling shame burn up his neck again. "Like I said, I promise it won't happen again."

"Make sure it doesn't." Castiel warned.

Garth bid them merry Christmas and walked away, and Dean hailed a cab for him and Castiel.

Dean had spent seven Christmases in jail.

He would not spend an eighth.


	22. Chapter 22

Sam pocketed his cell phone, and ran his fingers through his hair.

"Well, Dean's not coming, he was… I dunno, he said something about having just proposed to a call centre guy."

"Dean?" Gabriel looked at Sam quizzically and, Sam hoped he wasn't imagining, a little worried.

"My brother. And, weirdly, that's one of the better reasons he's given for not turning up to things."

"Well, my brother isn't even answering his phone. And I only gave it to him a couple of days ago. Careless."

"Ok, so that…"

"No, wait, dammit, I have a bone to pick with you." Gabriel looked angry (apart from a brief chuckle at the word "bone"), and poked Sam in the chest. "You couldn't pull this lawyer bullshit a day and a half ago?"

"No," Sam was incredulous, "because I like being allowed to go to malls without everyone terrified I'm gonna sue them for something. And I was really hoping they'd sort this out. And…" Sam caught himself and let his words fade into silence, but not before Gabriel saw an embarrassed glint in his eyes.

"And?"

"And… maybe I wanted to… not be.. not in the elevator."

Sam started studying his shoes very intently. Gabriel crossed his arms.

"Sammy? Is there something you'd like to share with the group?"

Sam continued to stare at the floor. It didn't take much effort for Gabriel to duck into his sightline.

"Sam?"

"I…" It took Sam far more work to avoid Gabriel's gaze. "Ok. Fine. Dean's all pissy about work and obsessed with some sex line, all my friends are all out of town, and I've been single for the past three years."

Sam pouted at the elevator walls.

Gabriel stared at him.

Gabriel laughed.

"Oh gee thanks, you know, forget I said anything."

"No, no, no…" Gabriel wheezed, as he leaned against the elevator door for support, eyes wide as he struggled to breathe. "No, sorry, I… ha… I'm sorry. I'm sorry, you're just… so…"

"Yeah, I'm pathetic," Sam huffed, "I get it, I know."

"No, no…" Gabriel managed to stand up straight, wiped tears of laughter from his eyes, and composed himself a little, resting a hand on Sam's face. "You're… cute. Weirdly cute, considering you're basically a tree that has learned to walk like a man. So you didn't want to spend Christmas on your own, is that it?"

"Yeah." Sam sighed, before shaking off Gabriel's hand. "And I'm not cute. I'm… I'm tough."  
"Oh, yeah, tough. Manlier than Iron Man, a true red-blooded American male," Gabriel tried to look like he was trying not to smile. "You kill cows and eat steak with your bear hands."  
They both nodded at each other, before sharing a small smirk.

Sam marched across the Elevator to hit the call button again.

"Hey Dude Guy?"

"Seriously, I have a name."

"I don't care. Now, have you talked to your manager yet?"

"They're rushing in an engineer as we speak, dudebro."

"Ok, that's great. Just let them know we're phoning everyone we know, and we're going to clog up their car lot so much they'll never be able to get any customers in or out. Until we're out of this elevator, this whole damn mall is going to get shut down."

Dude guy was silent for a moment. Sam shot a wink at Gabriel, before continuing,

"And we're still gonna sue the goddamn pants off of all of you."

"Dudes," Dude guy gave a weary sigh. "You're really causing problems, you know that?"

Dude Guy rang off, and Sam turned to Gabriel.

"Done and done."

"You remember the part where everyone we rang said they couldn't make it, right?" Gabriel raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah," Sam shrugged, "but Dude Guy doesn't."

Gabriel looked up at the new and improved privacy bag, which was now securely tied, gummed and taped in place over the security camera.

"Sweet," He said, sidling into Sam's personal space. "Looks like you're getting us out of here."

"That's the plan."

"So… fancy one more ride to remember the old girl by?"

Sam cast a nervous glance up at the security camera. Gabriel reached up and tangled his fingers in Sam's hair, gently pulling his head until they were nose to nose.

"C'mon… I'll even let you top this time."

Gabriel grinned at Sam, whose resistance visibly crumbled, and pulled him down into a long kiss.

Worryingly, Sam thought, this was possibly his best Christmas in the past five years.


	23. Chapter 23

The cab ride back to Castiel and Raphael's apartment takes approximately forever.

The cab they're in is driven by a guy who is apparently afraid of his accelerator, other cars, and potential falling sky pianos. Eventually Dean digs his badge out of his pocket, flashes it, and tells the guy that it's a matter of national security, and driving like an old woman could potentially be classes as a felony in this situation.

After that they get there at a speed of no less than 80mph, even in a built up area.

Castiel lets them into his apartment building, and they climb the stairs to the top floor, where he opens the door into a small, clean apartment with almost nothing in it except a table, a sofa, a lamp leaning drunkenly against the wall, a plywood wardrobe, and a hot plate.

There's a hide-a-bed folded up into the white wall, and once further inside the room, Dean spots a door that presumably leads to the bathroom, and, to the left of the front door, two desks, facing opposite directions, one made of chrome and black glass, the other a large wooden monster, with piles and piles of paperwork on it.

"Home office?"

Castiel, who was opening a drawer in the wardrobe to remove mugs, instant coffee and powdered milk, looked up. "Both Raphael and I do a lot of paperwork and it worked out more practical for us to each have our own space."

"So, he bitched about not having his own desk?"

"Incessantly." Castiel took the little kettle into the bathroom and filled it with water, then came back and put it on the hotplate.

Dean looked over the few papers on the glass desk, mostly company literature of no real importance. The larger desk was covered in heaps of printed papers, and when Dean took a closer look through them, he could see that they were in fact applications. Hundreds of them. Each with an addressed envelope paper clipped to the bottom.

"These all yours?"

"For this week, yes." Castiel sighed, stirring coffee into boiling water and adding powdered milk. "Would you like something to eat?"

"Yeah, I'm starving."

Castiel fished around in the wardrobe, and Dean saw a mini-fridge wedged into a corner of it. Castiel took out some cheese, and a bag of sliced bread, and set about making grilled cheese.

Dean sat down by the table and looked up at him from his place on the floor.

"How long have you lived here?"

"Since we left college." Castiel shrugged, "It's cheap, and it suits me, Raphael is always complaining about it, saying we should move elsewhere. But, as he won't cover more than half of the rent, I can't afford to leave."

"Why doesn't he just get his own place?"

"He needs me." Castiel was watching the hot plate as if fascinated. "I help him with his case files...when he's stuck on a point of law, or needs advising on the procedural code..."

"So basically, you do his job for him, even though it should have been your job in the first place?"

"Yes."

Dean sat back against the sofa, leaning his back against one of its legs. "Jeeze Cas, way to be a pushover."

Castiel glared. "I am not a pushover."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "C'mon, you live with an asshole who never lets you forget that you earn less than him, which is his fault, and yet still you help him with his job, which should have been yours, because you're better at it."

"I help out because I care about him." Castiel said, flipping the grilled cheese onto paper plates and passing one to Dean.

"Do you really care about him?" Dean asked, "because, if you cared about me like that, I wouldn't be able to just stand by and watch your life turn to crap."

Castiel seemed to think about this.

"I think I loved him...maybe now I just know him. It's easy."

"Sucks." Dean said succinctly.

Castiel frowned deeply into the depths of his grilled cheese. "Please don't attempt to give me relationship advice."

"I was just saying-"

"I've had enough advice from my brothers, from my friends, even from Raphael's less than supportive co-workers. I don't need more pointless words of wisdom from a drunk cop."

Dean rolled his shoulders in an easy shrug. "I'm actually sober now."

Castiel turned his frown on him.

"And I meant what I said, I'm going to be stony sober now, every Christmas." Dean broke a piece of grilled cheese off and popped it into his mouth. "Everyone's been covering for me, at work, no one ever said, 'what if you hit a kid?' I guess I never thought about it...but, you're right, I'm a dumbass, and a selfish moron...how's someone's Mom going to feel when her kid gets killed on the road on Christmas Eve?"

"We don't think about things that make our lives difficult," Castiel allowed, looking around at the bare walls of his apartment. "That's why I don't like examining my relationship with Raphael too closely."

"Maybe you should."

"I prefer to keep to things that are right in front of me...the things I have to deal with." Castiel set his plate to one side. "Whether that's thirty burgers in need of flipping, or applications I need to do."

"Ok," Dean put his plate to one side, the edge of it touching Castiel's discarded plate. He took hold of Castiel's ankles, and pulled him across the floor, laying him out and leaning over him.

"Deal with me."


	24. Chapter 24

_Welcome to the last day of advent fics 2012 – MERRY CHRSTMAS!_

For such a bold move, it paid off well, Dean thought, as Castiel didn't shove him off and call him an asshole. Instead he agreeably laid himself out on the floor, and proved himself equal to every move that Dean made in touching, and gradually undressing him.

Clearly Castiel hadn't been with anyone new in a long time, and Dean didn't imagine Raphael as a kind, considerate, or even very thorough partner. That much was clear from the way Castiel gave all of himself in each kiss, each touch, as if he was discovering sex for the first time all over again.

Naked, and unwilling to stop touching each other, they stumbled across the small room, and Castiel dragged the bed down from the wall, jumping back when it hit the floor in a cacophony of springs and metal legs. Dean grabbed him around the waist and tossed him down on the rumpled sheets and too-soft mattress, joining him as the bed complained and Castiel reached out for him and pulled him into his arms again.

It was the best Christmas Eve Dean had ever had, he thought, even as midnight struck somewhere out in the cold, dark night, and Christmas day rolled in around them. Castiel was eager, and when Dean stopped kissing him, knelt over him just so he could stroke his hands down over his slim, heaving torso, he saw that the flat look was gone from Castiel's eyes. Replaced by warmth, and unguarded happiness, and Dean didn't want to do anything to make that look go away, it was just too damn good to look at, and it made him feel warmer than a shot burning in his gut.

Castiel reached up, one hand tracing his face. "I don't usually...I mean, I'm not like this."

"Well, it is the holidays," Dean said.

Castiel laughed, an honest, surprised laugh. "Yeah...time to enjoy ourselves."

"And we so are," Dean leant back over him, mouthing carefully at the spot on Castiel's neck that he'd learnt made the other guy shiver and whimper. "And, you smell like hamburgers, which is doing a lot for me."

Castiel's laugh mingled with a moan, and Dean hadn't heard a better sound in all his years on earth.

Then another sound cut into it, a rattling. Someone trying the lock on the door, and, discovering that the mortise lock on the inside was engaged, thundering against the door with their fist.

Dean had a fairly good idea of who it was.

Castiel clearly thought the same thing, because he sat up, eyes angling down again as his mouth set in a blank line. "Raphael."

"Guess Jo couldn't keep him once he woke up." He muttered, "Cas, you don't have to let him in."

"It's his apartment."

"But he doesn't want it, not really." Dean said.

Castiel looked sadly down at him and sighed. He knew, deep deep down, under his daily, dogged attempts to find work, to find meaning in his boring, pointless little life, that he was not the person that Raphael loved, not anymore. Raphael loved himself too much to ever care what happened to Castiel, who, after all, was just a means to an end, a source book on social care, a secretary, a cleaner, second chair to Raphael's victorious life.

He had warm skin against his, someone who, at least for tonight, was looking into him, instead of through him. For once the apartment wasn't filled with Raphael's blunt, angry voice, complaining about the tiny space, the poor furnishings, Castiel's lack of ambition, Castiel's relative unattractiveness, his bad cooking, his lax approach to housekeeping, his incapability that had lead to his shameful job, how tired Raphael was of being saddled with him.

Castiel didn't want Raphael in the room with him, the idea of it was suddenly so nauseating that he couldn't stand to even imagine what the conversation would be like between them.

Castiel raised his voice against the hammering fists. "Go away Raphael."

A vicious kick landed against the wood. "Castiel this is my apartment. Mine alone after the stunt you pulled at the police station. I'm going to sue you for assault, and I want you and your things out of my apartment in the next twenty minutes."

Castiel rested his forehead against Dean's shoulder. He was very tired all of a sudden.

"If you want I can call it in, report him for disturbing the peace, get Garth or Jo to stick him in a cell and keep him there."

"Castiel!" Raphael shouted, "Is there someone in there with you?"

"The walls are really thin," Castiel muttered, then called out, "Yes."

"That drunk you bailed out?" Raphael laughed, and the sound was like a garbage disposal chewing up turkey leftovers. "Only you could be so pathetic as to bring home a drunk on Christmas eve, to screw you to sleep."

Castiel sat back, eyes closed, shaking his head slowly, once he started he couldn't stop, he didn't want this. He wanted quiet, and peace and a chance to get his head together after a very long, disquieting day.

Dean put an arm around him, coaxed him until they were lying on the bed, spooned together and facing away from the door. Dean kissed the back of his neck, gently making his way to his throat, his cheek. Castiel kept his eyes closed, the soft touch of Dean's mouth and the warmth of his hand gently rubbing circles on his side making his eyes prickled beneath their lids.

Dean tucked the sheets around him, and folded them up so that only Castiel's face was exposed, his ears swaddled in layers of blankets and smooth cotton. Dean gave him a final squeeze, then got out of bed, picked up his pants and slid into them.

Castiel knew this was the moment that Dean would leave him, and Raphael would come in, and it would be ugly, and raw, and horrible, and he'd end up on the street, in the cold, dragging a suitcase of things towards the bus station, trying to remember the names of distant friends from college, and their numbers.

He heard Dean's feet on the floor, the rattle of drawers and tumble of things to the floor, muffled by the sheets that were doing a good job of keeping out Raphael's raging voice.

He turned a little and saw that Dean was emptying the drawers of Raphael's desk into a cardboard box. Then he went to the wardrobe, considered the clothes inside, and pulled out everything that looked like it didn't fit Castiel's slim frame, pairs of highly shined dress shoes, a Gucci belt. Then on into the bathroom, where thumps and bangs indicated that he was divesting the shelves of Raphael's Calvin Klein scents and face washes, leaving behind Castiel's own K-mart shaving foam and shower gel.

With a heaped up box, Dean went to the door, undid the lock, yanked it open and flung the box of wadded up clothes and leaking body wash into Raphael's shocked arms.

"Now, fuck off," Dean advised in a low, angry voice, "because I may be a drunk, but I'm a drunk with a gun, and I'll use it if you even think of touching this door again."

He slammed the door shut, and, after a few seconds, Castiel sat up and heard shuffling footsteps and muffled curses in the stairwell, and then the front door of the building banged shut, and there was silence once again.

"Thank you," Castiel said quietly.

Dean shrugged. "You'd've done the same, if you were in the right mood. Can't blame you for wanting to hide from it."

"I'll move my things out in the morning," Castiel decided, "I can find a place, I have a little bit of money, not much, but, it'll keep me a month or so, until I've found another job."

"I can help you move, if you want," Dean said. "I've got a car, so, that'll make it easy."

"That would be very kind of you."

"And...uh..." Dean shrugged like it was nothing to him, "maybe after we could go and get lunch somewhere? Kind of a Christmas day moving party...date."

Castiel smiled, and Dean was so glad to be the cause of that smile, that he returned it.

"I'd love to," Castiel said.

"Great."


End file.
